


you will never be lovelier

by Casia_sage



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Clarke is only in the end, Doctor Abby Griffin, F/M, Gen, Hurt Bellamy, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Inaccuracies, Minor Abby Griffin/Marcus Kane, Minor Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Mother's Day, Mother-Son Relationship, Needles, Parent Abby Griffin, Protective Abby Griffin, Protective Clarke Griffin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-07 17:15:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14675760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casia_sage/pseuds/Casia_sage
Summary: Abby Griffin has accepted the fact that she's responsible not only for her daughter, but 47 other children.And Bellamy Blake, despite being 23, is no exception. Abby has been alive long enough to realize that 23 is still a child.





	you will never be lovelier

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short, shitty one-shot for Mother’s Day w/ everyone’s favorite rebel king and sky mom!!!

Abby Griffin has accepted the fact that she's responsible not only for her daughter, but 47 other children. 

And Bellamy Blake, despite being 23, is no exception. Abby has been alive long enough to realize that 23 is still a child.

So when she hears Miller’s familiar voice shout her name as he comes skidding into the infirmary, quickly followed by Monty and Harper, holding up a bloodied and barely conscious Bellamy, her heart skips a beat. She runs over to them, slipping Bellamy’s arm over her own shoulder and hurrying him over to one of the cots. 

She turns over to them quickly. “What happened?” 

Harper runs a palm across her face, leaving a smear of blood that Abby can only assume is Bellamy’s, hands shaking ever so slightly. “We ran into some grounders.” 

“We were getting our asses beaten,” Miller interjects.

“Bell pretty much saved us,” Harper continues, not taking her eyes from the eldest Blake’s still body. “But he got cut.” 

“That's a bit of an understatement, Harper,” Miller teases. But Abby can tell he’s just worried as Harper and Monty. “He was slashed with a fucking sword.” 

Abby hates that the kids still go out on such dangerous missions. She knows that every time they leave, there's a good chance that not all of them will come back. And Bellamy, being the self-sacrificing idiot that he is, was far more likely to die out there. She sees the way Clarke looks at him; like he holds up the sun and moon and all the stars. She was head over heels in love with him – she had been for a while. 

She sees how Marcus looks at him, too. He'd never had kids before, but he sure as hell treats Bellamy like his son.

And the other delinquents love him, too. Harper, Jasper, Monty, Miller, Raven, Monroe, Bryan, Fox, and the others (and Octavia, obviously). They don't just think of him as their fearless leader, they love him, too. He's their friend. They trust him and care about him. 

Abby can't pretend that she doesn't look at Bellamy the same way as Kane. It was like Abby was their mother and Kane was their father; not that she wants to be in that kind of relationship with Marcus, of course. 

Losing Bellamy would hurt just as much as losing Clarke, at this point. 

 

She quickly strips off the boy’s shirt, revealing his taut figure. The wound is about 6 ½ or 7 inches long, going across his side. Once she's sure that there's no particles or poison (which is more than likely with grounders) in the wound, she soaks a pad of gauze in antiseptic and dabs it on the wound. It's deeper than she originally thought. She puts more pressure on the wound, to stop the bleeding. 

“Jackson!” She yells, and her voice almost cracks. _Get yourself together, Griffin. Calm down. It doesn't matter that he's just a kid. Get it done._

Her assistant comes running in. He must've heard the panic in her voice. “Abby?” 

She wishes that she hadn't let his name slip out in such a scared manner, because Monty and Harper look eve more worried. Especially Monty, who had been frozen in the doorway since they got there. 

She gestures for Jackson to come over. He does. 

She gently brushes the hair from Bellamy’s face. The three delinquents relax considerably at the loving and parental gesture. 

His skin is clammy and hot to the touch. _Does he have a fever?_

Jackson swallows and straightens his posture. “What do you need me to do?”

“Go get me the suture kit,” she pauses for a moment to think. “And 1000 mg of acetaminophen.” 

He nods and hurries across the room, searching for the items. 

“Monty, I need cold water,” she says, without taking her eyes off her patient. 

“Right,” he says, and dashes out of the room with renewed purpose. 

Jackson returns minutes later, all the requested materials gathered in his hands. He sets them down on the table next to Bellamy’s cot and starts setting up the acetaminophen injection. 

Bellamy’s eyes flicker shut and Harper watches as his chest gently rises and falls. 

“I think he passed out,” she says worriedly. 

Miller gives her a slight smile. “I think it's best if he's not conscious for this, Harp,” he says, eyeing the curved needle is Abby’s hand. 

She does her best to clean off the blood, dabbing at his chiseled abs with a clean gauze pad.

Monty comes back in with a pail of water. 

“Dampen a cloth and put it on his forehead,” Abby tells him. 

Monty soaks a cloth, rings it out, and folds it gently over the older boy’s head. He's startled when he feels the heat radiating off of his skin. 

“Abby, he's burning up.” 

She still doesn't look away from the needle in her hand. “I know. Jackson, give him the injection.” 

Jackson strides over, his eyes focused. He takes the younger man’s arm and, with steadied and experienced hands, sticks the syringe into a vein. When he shows no sign that he has even noticed the cold liquid streaming through his body, Jackson decides that he's definitely unconscious. 

Abby feels the needle in her hand. It's small, lightweight. She leans in closer. Her heart pounds in her chest as she slides the sharp needle through his skin. With each stitch, her heart seems to beat faster. _You’re not going to mess up. You're saving him. You're saving Bellamy Blake._ She has to keep reminding herself of that. But she doesn't let it show. Her face is as focused as ever. 

She finishes the suture with a sigh, wiping the sweat from her brow. When she's done wrapping a clean white bandage around his torso, she sits down and sets the needle on the table. She leans over and gently wipes Bellamy’s face with the wet rag. 

She looks back at Jackson, Miller, Monty, and Harper. “He's okay. He'll be okay,” she says, more to herself than to them. 

Monty and Harper nod. Miller bits his lips and huffs. Of course they're uncomfortable. They're probably not used to seeing their brave, reckless leader in such a weak state. 

Jackson scoots closer and throws a thin blanket over Bellamy’s bare torso. 

Abby smiles at her assistant softly. _He’s a good doctor,_ she thinks. 

He puts his hand on Miller’s shoulder. “We should give Dr. Griffin some space,” he says as he guides them out of the room. The three of them look annoyed that Jackson’s treating them like children. But it was the right thing to do. _He’s not just a good doctor, he's a good man._ Abby feels a rush of pride as she watches the young doctor close the door behind him.

—————————

He's cold. So cold. But he's covered in sweat. His hair is stuck to his head with it. 

His head is pounding. His brain is practically rattling in his skull, his eyes ache, and there's a sharp, throbbing pain in his side. He can physically feel the drugs pumping through his body. His mind becoming foggy and intoxicated; the pain in his side slowly numbing. 

His eyelids flutter. He can see a figure standing before him. Short and thin and feminine. Long, silky hair flowing around her chest as she moves closer towards him. 

“Clarke?” He says in a whisper that's too quiet to hear.

It's not Clarke. The figure doesn't have her girlish curves or golden hair. And she doesn't carry herself the same way. Clarke carries herself like she's young, beautiful, brilliant, and like she could fucking crush you (Bellamy has found that all of to be true). This person, though, carries herself differently. Like she's tired. Like she hides her insecurities, her fears, behind her stern and confident stance. This figure is so, so familiar, and Bellamy would be able to recognize it, but delirious Bellamy isn't as perceptive. 

She leans over him and his eyes shoot open. 

“Dr. Griffin?” He whispers, loud enough to hear this time. 

“Hi.” She smiles and runs a wet towel along his cheekbone. “You can just call me Abby.” 

He licks his dry, split lips. “Abby,” he groans breathily. 

She smiles gingerly and helps him sit up. 

Bellamy hears her say something, but he can't make it out. She hold a cup of water up to his lips that he swears he didn't see her pick up. He drinks it slowly, the cold liquid coating his sticky, dry throat.

“How're you feeling?” 

He looks up at her. “Better,” he says in a slightly less croaky voice. 

He watches her as she cleans up; more for an excuse to avoid awkward small talk than anything else. 

“Doct- Abby,” he corrects. 

She turns towards him and gives him a questioning humm. 

He props himself up higher against the wall, sluggishly, and looks down. “Thank you.”

Abby’s head snaps towards him. “Of course. It's my job.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head ever-so-slightly. “Thank you...for everything.” 

Abby smiles, wider and more genuine. The crinkles in the corners of her eyes prove such. 

“I should be thanking you, Bellamy.” 

He lets out a small laugh as she beams down at him. “I haven't done anything to deserve that.”

She looks into his eyes and realizes that he's being serious, which, frankly, is a little unnerving. “You do. You've saved so many people. My daughter.” 

“I’ve killed people,” he says weakly. “I've let innocent people die. I've done horrible things. I always end up choosing the wrong thing.” 

She’s shocked for a moment. She wasn’t expecting such raw honesty from him, but she supposes that she can blame that on his current, slightly delirious, drugged-up state.

“You did what you thought you had to do. I can't hate you or blame you for that,” she says truthfully, placing her hand over his. She pretends not to notice that he flinched slightly. “There aren't any heroes in this story, Bellamy Blake. There are only survivors.” 

An all too familiar voice echoes through the room. “Bellamy? Mom?”

Clarke comes jogging in, blonde hair trailing behind her. 

Abby can't help but notice the change in Bellamy’s mood. He's not smiling, but his eyes certainly are. 

“Bellamy!” She said, scurrying over and placing her hand on the side of the cot. “Are you okay?”

He actually smiles this time; not just with his eyes. “I'm fine, princess.”

Clarke glares at him (playfully, not angrily) for the nickname. 

_Just kiss him already, Clarke._

“I'll leave you two alone,” Abby says. 

Without thinking, she leans forward and places a gentle kiss on his forehead. His sickly, colorless face suddenly turns red. For a moment, she wonders when the last time he was touched is such a gentle, motherly way was. _He's not your son, Griffin. Don't get so attached._

She strolls out of the room, not taking her eyes from the two. _It’s too late for that_.


End file.
